I lean against the window, my mind completely empty.

The open curtains allow the moonlight to shine through, casting a bluish light on my face.

Surrounded by the complete silence, I suddenly hear the sound of train in the distance.

I don’t know where it's heading to.

However, one thing is certain - we are all travelling together towards the same place.

end of the summer was slipping away

we parted our ways

no one to stay

smell of the lilac

breeze in the air

on your neck warm breath

last goodbye, can I say?

memories grasped between fingers

looking for a way

trapped in thoughts

that are slipping away

My grandmother never took off her wedding ring.

The skin grew around it, trapping it through the ages.

‘When I die you’ll have to cut off my finger to get the gold.’

Does the blood flow out of the cut-off finger of my grandmother’s dead body?

There is only so much that can fit into a 15-minute phone call,

pixels on the screen, a network that connects us across the ocean.

There is only so much that can fit into a 12 square meter kitchen,

table that brings us together, years that keep us apart.

She sleeps alone now, in the apartment emptied by death,

with yellow walls painted by cigarette smoke,

an empty armchair with burn marks,

the only remaining proofs of a life once lived.

There is only so much that can fit into a picture taken by my mother,

a row of flowers, the crucifix on the moldy walls of the funeral home, my grandmother in the

corner.

There is only so much that can fit into a wooden casket,

a pillow, linen, and my grandfather’s body.

I told my mother to call me as soon as something happens,

looking up what it means for a person to be in a medically induced coma,

a bomb waiting to explode, covering us in its shattered pieces,

leaving us to deal with the death of a loved one.

There is only so much that can fit in a text:

call me when you can… news of death.

There is only so much that can fit in the obituary,

a photo, few words from loved ones, and the date of the funeral.

You need to be strong.

We can only be happy that she didn’t suffer,

that she lived and smoked in her armchair in the apartment until her last days.

We need to carry on.

There is only so much that can fit in a poem,

361 words, grief, the last goodbye that I haven’t had a chance to say.

I know that cigarette smoke will remain in the apartment longer than my grandmother.

I know that blood doesn’t flow out of the cut-off finger of her dead body.

I love when my husband cooks me dinner - especially the way he prepares food.

The way he gently cuts into the meat, with such precision and care,

admiring each piece he just sliced.

Dark reds,

emerald greens,

the tenderness of the meat against the sharp edge of the knife.

There’s something strange, yet beautiful about it.

I love the elegance he brings to the food – moving his hands gracefully,

adding richness to the flavour,

each meal turning into a work of art.

He could have been an excellent culinary chef.

Only if I hadn’t stumbled upon that hand in the freezer.

If only the world could see me

Through the loving eyes of yours

Would it let me be free

Of all the horrible things it thinks of me

If only the world could speak

Like your gentle voice speaks to me

For the words they said

Caused me so much hurt and pain

Maybe this world isn't fit

For a person like me

Whose heart is like a fragile piece

But I do know one thing

And that is my place

In your gentle and eternal embrace

Summer sky reddens

Tides come in, cover seashells

Salt of the earth rests

Child's play in the park

Air filled with charry fragrance

Let's forget exams

Oh please tell me

Tell me the love you hold

For my damaged soul

Of all the battles you would win

So I may never again shed a tear

Of all the men you would kill

To make me smile every year

Tell me, my love

Would you sacrifice all you love?

Because I would

For you, I would give you the world

Tell me, dear

If you would truly shed a tear

For a person such as myself

Whose thoughts are dark and unsafe

For a person of kind heart such as yourself

Tell me, would you still love me the same

If I showed you the scars the past left

And if it would affect the love we share

i'm back home, and there's nothing to do

home? this isn't home

what once was, now a barren wasteland

of memories

only memories

not home anymore.

i'm passing my childhood best friend's apartment building

i can't remember which balcony is hers

she doesn't live there anymore

hasn't in years.

the trail we walked on no longer exists

nobody had the desire to walk it anymore

it's served its purpose.

the playground is gone.

there's nothing in its place

just the benches we sat on

years ago.

this isn't home anymore.

now it's just a wasteland of memories

there's not much to do.

just a hometown now.

town i grew up in

only memories remain

i can always come here,

but i'm afraid i'm no longer welcome.

A never-ending road stretches before me.

I turn to my left, only to find a distant view of the city, illuminated by the golden rays of

sunshine.

My friend calls out to me, reminding me it's time to go.

Forever sunset.

Stranded is my lonely, hungry heart,

Stranded in my pain of art.

Vacant are my frail, hungry arms,

Vacant, hiding the sweet, piercing harms.

Desperate is my weak, hungry spirit,

Desperate, in need of someone near it.

What is love but a poison?

Through blood it swiftly flows,

In ears it whispers blows.

Tortured hearts it burns,

Stolen memories it never returns.

Sick is this evil, selfish earth,

Sick in its nature of birth.

Wicked are the ill, selfish men,

Wicked more by every day again.

Hopeless is this mortal, selfish land,

Hopeless, yet their foolish lies stand.

when my body decays

brain shuts down

soul calms completely

my hand lets go of yours

will I be reborn

as a star in the sky

will you recognize my being

in the constellation of Cassiopeia

or perhaps in Pegasus

and sometimes wish

for me to scatter from the sky

and fall

once again

into your

arms

let’s shoot the Moon and drink the azure blood

it would bleed

then rip the stars from the night sky

and put them in our bedrooms

so we could cherish the natural light the universe gave us

to feel less alone and less blue

and finally, give them name after name

of all people who lived up to now

become stars, so it would be

a chain reaction of soulmates that gave up.

I want to be the star in someone’s room.

I want to be the star in your room.

There are rings of gold in your brown eyes

And I don't know if you've noticed

But every time I steal a few seconds to look into them

You ask me “What?”

And I say “Nothing, just looking.”

Sometimes I even go as far as to say “You have beautiful eyes.”

But it’s not what I truly want to say

Because I imagine melted ores hugging the golden threads

As I imagine the warmth of our minds hugging – the same

And it’s not something I could offer as an answer to “What?”

I’d like for us to share a special bond

To make you see

To get a taste of what you see in mine

And it doesn’t feel as if time has stopped -

It Swirls

Trashes

Strikes

And a thousand pictures flash there between us

Before I say

“Nothing,

just looking.”

And smile

and as the universe embraces my rusty heart

and as I embrace the universe

and accept the chaos it kindly offers

and the love that my body craves

it loves me

it guards me

perhaps;

hopefully, I am not a fool

as I hope in this lively dance

to one day, in love

find my stance

And there was silence,

a deafening hum

echoing around the room

taking the form

of sterile concentric circles

rippling around the empty room

overlapping each other

in a mute waltz.

And then a sound,

a noise,

a gunshot meeting the solace,

a ray after being imprisoned

in a nocturnal utero.

It is a birth,

a new age,

an orchestra

painted in every colour.

A clear pane of glass

broken by a thrown hammer.

A whisper

rustling between the treetops

only to be turned into a roar

that scares away the leaves

which morph into screeching crows

that flee from the empty branches.

The static of a television

with no signal,

yet the volume

is tuned to max,

only to be unplugged

from the ancient wall.

And then again, there was silence.

ravens around my sunken soul

sensing the pain

of the taken youth; you know, the one you greedily stole

you polluted my mind

disturbed my reason

invaded my thoughts like a plague

never left them, not even for a fucking day

I yearn

I rush

with hope of finding my way

yet your absence lingers, day by day

despite all of it

a storm slowly brews in my head

but without you

I wish it were me who were dead

but still, these words will not

bring you back

or undo the pain

as now, you are in the underground lane

you are gone;

not here

not near

and I cannot wait for us to meet

again, in the infinite life of nothingness

my one

and only

dear.

So lost and cold, as she was wont to say, [1]

She who was born an early winter's day [2]

Still stands intact in portraits, as alone,

A Holy Mother destined for a throne. [3]

And then, in wait, her visage recollects

The soul her lover thoroughly neglects. [4]

Disgraced, alone, she'd well lie down and die

Were she not destined for another's eye.

Then merged and smashed with others to be mixed [5]

For benefactors' dreams [6] her soul be fixed –

Kept immortal, yet not quite in life,

Not quite a daughter, not beloved wife. [7]

Read even now as if she holds her breath, [8]

So cold and lost, and still awaiting death. [9]

[1] Dead Before Death – a sonnet by Christina Rossetti

[2] Not quite true, since she was born the 5th of December, but I hope it works

[3] Christina Rossetti as the sitter for Virgin Mary for Dante Gabriel Rossetti's Annunciation – destined to go to Heaven, but also faced with the inevitable death of her future child

[4] The sitter for Millais' Marianna

[5] Her face mixed with Millais' face in his paintings – Christina Rossetti being deconstructed as a subject for the Brotherhoods' purposes

[6] Dante's and other Pre-Raphaelites' artistic vision

[7] Her preoccupation with marriage proposals and the fact that she died a spinster + a reference to her poems: A Daughter of Eve – a fool to pluck my rose too soon; a fool to snap my lily; and The Convent Threshold: There's love between us, love, my love, there's father's blood, there's brother's blood;

[8] No peace in death as she is still alive in Pre-Raphaelite paintings, drawings and in her poems

[9] Again a reference to Dead Before Death, but also awaiting death as a combination between her own melancholy disposition, Marianna contemplating suicide, Virgin Mary awaiting Christ's death and maybe even a moment in the far future when Christina Rossetti's memory will die and her death will come to completion.

I could write you so many poems

and so many love letters

but would you read them?

I could write to you all of my love

but all of my love would be wasted

all those feelings spilled on paper

I could write till my soul gives out

and the ink fills up all the papers

but wouldn't you burn all of my effort?

I could write to you till the end of time

I could spill my love, but you won't, so I don't

and so many words go unwritten

and yet here I am, writing

with you on my mind and your shallow heart;

guess mine was spilling too much

did it stain you?

dying really isn’t hard.

you only need a good push down the drain

and when you’re gone people stop to call your

name.

don’t worry, families always find a way to exist

when you’re the ghost at their

dinner table.

they put away the silver plates and handkerchiefs made

only to remind themselves of your persistent

silence.

dying isn’t hard. but often it makes everybody go

mad once you leave without answers.

Earth (पृथ्वी)

To whom do you owe the place where

You yoke your stock and stand your ground?

To whom do you owe the caves where

Gold's glow concealed grows old, unfound?

And do they not ask "on what grounds?"

When one takes pains to make vain claims?

And when earth moves, should it so choose

Are then men not found, ground by ground?

But, before we go beyond this,

By one last question you'll be bound:

Is it not true that even saints

Say that they walk on sacred ground?

Water (आपस्)

Before glass gave that very same grace

In ponds mankind saw their true face

When horizons were merely space

Through rush and rain, blue took its place

A deluge comes, a deluge goes

So come and go our daily woes

Every drop and tear brims with life

Every river cuts stone in strife

We wait for rains from far above

We brave through years of fatal floods

We are the flesh defying all odds

But, what is flesh without its blood?

Fire (अग्नि)

Embers covering ravaged soil

Undoing years of daily toil

The tongues of flame, they lick and hiss

In the bliss of a final kiss

The glimmering specks and trails fade

From the restless core of the flame

The sparks embrace their potent bloom

And the flame's roots dig deeper through

To think that flames may lack in love

Is thinking of a strange fashion

Well, then tell, what is the fire's swell

But the purest form of passion?

Air (वायु)

As you climb the steepest of peaks

And look upon the world below

Who else will greet you at the top

If not the wind's calming blow?

And whether it be night or day

One force gives trees their gentle sway

And the very same force, through its play

Will give and take your breath away

Things bought or sold, written or told

The winds of time take as they please

To this world we're not a day old

So relax and enjoy the breeze

Aether (आकाश)

What unites you and me?

That we both came to be.

Then, what is this "to be"?

Which unites weightless skies

And the weight of the stone

Which unites formless flames

And the ocean's calm flow

What being is this

That binds the stars yet unseen

To the stories that are yet untold

That binds the fire of enmity

To the still waters

of calming words

And even a forlorn brick of stone

Abandoned in a desert temple, long ago

May speak of pride, may speak of skill

May speak of love - and the human will

The maker of this brick of stone

Did he have friends, did he have foes?

What were his sorrows, or his woes?

Who did he love, who did he oppose?

What kind of water shaped this very stone?

Which river could call the water its own?

Of course, the river's name remains unknown

But oh just think, how bright it must have shone!

So if it's true that all you see

All in the same way tries to be

If someone does you wrong, at least

Forgive yourself that could've been

Perhaps a little comfort, a little solace

Maybe for some, but hopefully for all of us

Certainly not a rule

And likely

The words of a fool

But one almost feels that

Something divine

Must yet reside

In this life we live

In the time we divide

Yesterday morning,

I had a cup of coffee.

Morning I today have woken up to,

I had a cup of coffee. I’m still enjoying it, though.

Tomorrow morning,

I’ll drink a cup of coffee, too.

For the reasons unknown, you’ll never think

I cope with your existence in this apartment

by drinking coffee.

Why, because so many

drink alcohol and do drugs and have sex with

other men’s wives.

Yet I sit in silence with television muffled and I

drink

I drink my sister’s favourite warm beverage.

Yesterday, I drank it

because you were angry the night before

and I didn’t know what you’ll say the next day.

Today, I’m thinking of how rushed the life’s always been

and how I used my wishes on silly things

(didn’t want to grow up, didn’t want to be adult).

Tomorrow, I’ll drink coffee because I think

I’ll leave you behind

and my body will receive no more scars

and my lungs are going to breathe.

Better for me to drink something from my youth

when I didn’t meet you

and I didn’t know abuse can have a face and eyes, too

(day after tomorrow I’ll pour more gin, less tonic and I’ll wear an open dress).

But always I’ll remember

there were cups, cups of black water

and I put salt instead of sugar.

Betwixt my fingers

Her locks of gold.

In my arms,

Her corpse I hold.

Mother cries:

“Oh, Lord! Why my baby?”

Lord, why indeed

This fair young lady?

It is you Mother!

You are at fault!

It is your hand

That put her in that vault!

It is you Mother!

You are to blame!

It is your word

That put her in that grave!

You haven’t right to weep,

For it was her cries you ignored.

Now carry the burden

Of the ‘little girl’ you ‘adored’.